


Meditor Planto Perficio (Practice Makes Perfect)

by mickeym



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-21
Updated: 2007-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has to practice his Latin. Dean's not sure he'll survive it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meditor Planto Perficio (Practice Makes Perfect)

"Dad--c'mon. Please?"

Dean knows he's way too old to be wheedling like this, but the thought of sitting home, sitting out _another_ hunt--he's so desperate to get out and do something his skin itches.

Dad shakes his head, and Dean knows he needs to stay here -- no matter how good a fighter Sammy is, he's still not one hundred percent. Hell, he just got rid of the crutches a few days ago. But still. Dean feels like he's been stuck in this crappy little motel-cum-apartment for years, now.

Even the knowledge that there are side bennies to staying behind can't quite make up for not going. Well, okay, maybe they do. Mostly.

"I don't know how long this could take, and we can't leave Sammy alone that long."

"I can _hear_ you, y'know," Sam shouts from the other room. "It's my ankle that's broken, not my ears."

"Sam--" Their dad begins, but Dean just shakes his head, reaching one hand out in case he needs to make physical contact. Push Dad away, or something.

"I got it, Dad. I got him."

"Make sure he studies his Latin. Not just his homework." Dad's already backing up, eyes moving around the room. Dean follows, looking at each spot Dad looks at: rifle at the ready by the bedroom door. Salt lines in front of the door, and both windows. Protection symbols chalked discretely behind curtains or furniture. They're good to go.

"I will," Dean says, only to be cut off by Sam hollering.

"You can talk to me, you know! Tell me, instead of him." Sam shouts again, and Dean clenches his jaw. Jesus, he's only about ten or twelve feet away, does he have to yell? "I'll do the fu--freakin' Latin, okay?"

"All right. Sam, study your Latin." Dad's voice is icy-cold; it matches the look in his eyes, and Dean's really glad it's not directed at him -- and wishes it weren't directed at Sam.

"I know the rites and basic exorcisms just fine," Sam grumbles. Dean can practically picture the look on his face. "I have a test Monday on Trig and a paper due for History."

"I know you'd rather do your homework--and you should, once you get done with the other. But don't let it slide. It's important, and you never know when you might need it."

In his head, Dean can hear Dad chanting the rite to make holy water, the syllables flowing off his tongue like the water drops fell from the rosary. He remembers watching Pastor Jim teach Dad the symbols and gestures, remembers sitting with Dad and Pastor Jim both, learning how to speak the awkward, clumsy words. In the here and now, he hears a muttered, "_Nunc contemno eo,_" and sighs inwardly.

Sulky and sullen, and a pain-in-his-ass for the next five, six days. Dean can hardly wait. Right now, those side bennies? Totally aren't going to compensate.

"That's _enough_, Sam. Do what you're told. And Dean, make sure you get the weapons cleaned, and you and Sam get some target practice in." There's a pause as Dad takes one last look around, tilting his head to see into the other room. He must make eye contact with Sam because he nods, clasps Dean once on the shoulder. "All right, boys, I'm outta here."

He's gone before Dean can even say "goodbye" or "be careful", door closing heavily behind him. It's an automatic move to lock the door, though most of the things that might come through it won't be stopped by your basic deadbolt.

It's quiet for about five seconds, and then there's a clatter-shuffle-grunt, and Sam peeks his head around the door frame. "'S he gone?"

"Yeah." Dean throws himself onto the lumpy couch and crosses his arms over his chest. "You could be a little nicer, y'know. Less of a spoiled prick. It wouldn't kill you."

"You guys talk about me like I'm not even in the room. Or like I'm too stupid to know you're talking about me. _Dad_ talks about me like that. He gives you orders about what I'm supposed to do, like he can't tell me 'cos I won't remember or something. And I don't wanna do any target practice this weekend, Dean. I need to get my stuff done for school."

"First of all, Dad totally does not talk about you like you're stupid. Neither do I. We know you got the brains in the family. Second of all, we're doing target practice. Doesn't have to be an all-day thing, but we're doing it. And third," Dean jerks his head. "Get over here, you whiny baby, so we can study your Latin."

"'M not whiny, and I'm not a baby. And I really don't want to study Latin. Or do target practice." It seems to take forever for Sam's long body -- he's as tall as Dean, now! -- to fully emerge from behind the doorframe, and even longer to get himself settled on the floor in front of Dean, notebook and texts open beside him. Dean shrugs.

"And I care, why?"

"Ego vere volo basio vos, vox iam."(1)

Dean shivers, just once. He can't help it--it's not even the words, it's just. Gah. Gotta maintain a cool front, though, so he raises an eyebrow. "What do I get out of it?"

Sam snorts, and Dean can practically hear the 'dumbass!' in it. "Basium." He pauses for just a minute, then smirks. "Or a blowjob. And no, I don't know how to say that in Latin, but neither do you."

"Practice, first." He should get a gold freaking medal for this one. He's also going to ignore the blowjob comment, because yeah, Pastor Jim and Dad didn't include that in their instructions. Thank God. That would've been above and beyond weird. "Do the cleansing one."

"What, cleansing me, or cleansing someone else?" Sam wiggles around until Dean's ready to smack him, just watching. _He_ wants to do some serious making out -- and other stuff -- just as badly as Sam. But he also can just imagine Dad walking back through the door because he forgot something, and wouldn't that just suck? So no, they need to wait a while.

"The one, the washing hands one. That you're supposed to do before doing anything else."

"Ablutions." Sam glances down at his notebook and frowns for a minute, his mouth working silently, then he smiles. "_Haec aqua a corpore impuritates, modo simile plumbo mutando ad aurum, elluat. Purga mentem. Purga carnem. Purga animum. Ita est!"_(2)

"Ita est," Dean says back, thinking they really need to be on the bed while doing this, so as soon as Sam's done they can get right down to business. He's already half hard; listening to a fucking _dead_ language should not be such a turn-on. Actually, now that he thinks about it, it wasn't--until Sammy's voice changed. Now, coming out all throaty and low and rough--

"Uh, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You paying attention? That's the whole point of this, right?"

Dean opens his eyes and looks down, and yep, the smirk on Sammy's face matches the one in his voice. Asshole. Plus, his hand is clenched into a fist so tight, his knuckles are white. Dean makes a conscious effort to loosen his hold. "Sorry, dude."

Sam smirks, then leans in closer to Dean. "_ Bibite, festivae fores; potate, fite mihi volentes propitiate._"(3)

He scowls once, trying to translate all the words in his head. He can read Latin, can write it, can do exorcisms, but on-the-spot translating, that's Sammy's forte. Sam's and Dad's. "Something about drinking."

"Which one of us needs to be studying?"

"Shut up, Sparky, and do the rite of blessing for holy water."

Sam scowls. "There's no way I can do that whole thing from memory--"

"I can." At least, Dean hopes he can. Thinks he can. "That's the whole point of this, y'know."

"Fine." Sam huffs out a breath and closes his eyes, like he's picturing the text. He probably is. Freak with a freaky memory.

"_ In nomen of Abbas , quod of Filius , quod of Flamen. _

_Deus, quisnam per unda quod Flamen has donatus nos a novus ortus in Sarcalogos, exsisto vobis totus. _

_Bona illae unda moneo nos of Sarcalogos, victus unda, quod sacramentum baptisma, quibus nos erant prognatus of unda quod Flamen. Proinde, nos es pluo per is sanctus unda vel utor en bona super ingressus templum vel domi, nos gratias ago Deus pro suus donum nobis quod nos quaeso suus succurro ut servo nos fidelis ut sacramentum nos have suscipio in fides._\--"(4)

Dean closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm, the flow, to Sam's voice. Belatedly he realizes it's not a good move, because he's supposed to be helping Sam with this, correcting him where he might need it. There isn't going to be any correcting, though, because Dean's chest is tight and achy. It's hard to draw air in, much less say anything. He feels like he's been dipped in heat, scalding heat that should melt the flesh from his bones but instead is making him feel alive, thrumming with need.

Drowning in need.

He shifts awkwardly on the couch, aware of his dick throbbing between his legs and the hypocrisy of wanting to throw his _brother_ onto the floor and fuck him senseless -- from listening to a holy rite.

He's so fucked it isn't funny, but that's pretty much par for the course, too, isn't it?

"Dean?" Sam sounds a lot closer than he did a minute ago, and Dean forces his eyes open to stare right into Sam's -- now kneeling up, putting them face-to-face -- his pupils blown wide, heat and hunger shining there. "Want me to go on?"

Dean swallows roughly and nods. "Do--exorcism. Rite of exorcism."

Hell, maybe it'll work on his demons, though he really doubts it.

Sammy leans in closer, close enough Dean can smell the scent of soap, of shampoo, the dusty scent that comes from paging through old books. His breath is hot against Dean's ear, his neck, and rather than hear them, Dean feels each word; they sizzle against his skin like holy water on the possessed.

"_Cristos Sarcalogos, Suus tantum - genitus Filius, quod per Sanctus Phasmatis. Vos confestim exsisto profugus ex nostrum terra quod ager lentus hic haud diutius, tamen obduco in ut locus qua vos can operor haud vulnero. In nomen of omnipotens Deus quod universus uranicus villa, pariter ut en nomen sanctus Templum Deus, nos denuntio a vomica in vos , ut qua vos vado vos exsisto vomica, minutum ex dies ut dies insquequo vos es efflectum. Permissum haud remnant vestrum subsisto usquam, praeter quis vires exsisto necesse pro quod utor homo. Exsisto commodo cedo nostrum prex, vos quisnam es probatur utriusque victus quod silenti quod orbis terrarum per incendia._"(5)

"Fuck, Sammy," is all he can say, and he's amazed -- in that small bit of his brain still actually working -- he can manage that much.

"Kinda what I was planning," Sam says, and his voice is rougher than usual, a low timbre Dean doesn't get to hear very often. "Or really, me, fucking you. You want more?"

God, can he handle more? "I don't--"

"I've been practicing something." Sam leans in closer, licks at the spot on the side of Dean's neck where he knows his pulse has to be showing, it's pounding so hard and fast. "Just for you, Dean," Sam tells him, biting where he just licked.

Dean shudders and tilts his head back.

"Tell me," he demands, biting down on a whimper when Sam lays one big hand over his hard-on, squeezing Dean through his jeans.

Sam kisses him then, mouth moving over Dean's like he's trying to devour him. Dean feels the hunger in it; the same hunger is echoing inside him, coiling tighter and tighter. Sam nicks Dean's lip with his teeth and the blossom of copper against his tongue, bitter under the sweetness of Sam's mouth, makes Dean growl and surge forward, trying to get more, harder, _now_.

"Tell me," he says again, voice hoarse. "Sam--"

Sam draws a deep breath, still so close it's like he's stealing Dean's breath. He laps at the stinging spot on Dean's lower lip, then shifts so he can speak into Dean's ear. His hand moves over Dean's erection, stroking slowly, fingers closing and opening with the rhythm of his words.

"_Iam vultus in mihi, sententia ego habe non munia Aphrodite, mediocris in visio quod vultus. Tamen inviso mihi, quod animadverto quam iam ego vultus procul thee quod sentio vox colere! Famulor quod sentio mihi moenia in thy viscus._" (6)

"Jesus," Dean whispers, pushing his hips upward, trying to get Sam to stroke harder, faster, something. "Please. Sam."

"Shh, I got you. Just listen." He undoes Dean's jeans, long fingers nimble, agile, pulling the material open until Dean's dick is right there, surging upward, curving back toward his belly. He's so fucking hard it hurts, and any touch now he's going to blow. "God, you're _perfect_, man." Sam strokes slowly, thumb rubbing at the so-sensitive spot just below the crown.

"_Iam sentio meus subluceo per thy artus quod fascinum. Etiam, sentio serpens profundus intus ex suus torpor. Sentio suus primitive tepidus ut emanio per thy radix, quod sentio him prolix porro quod ferreus, quod sentio fodere profundus intus tuo abdomen! Ex serpens vires quod vis. Recipero serpens donum, quod permissum vox of vita quod diligo proventus intus tuas fascinum. Vis inter nos exuro!_" (6)

He doesn't understand it all. Most of it, in fact. But there's something about serpents, and burrowing, and it's suggestive as hell. Dean groans, turning his head to kiss Sam, a sloppy, wet kiss that he hopes Sam reads as *please, fuck me now!*

But just in case, he pulls Sam closer, biting the words onto Sam's mouth. "Yes, yes, Jesus--"

Sam's already working at his own jeans, and Dean misses him the minute he moves away to shuck them off. His fingers are clumsy, shaking, and Dean hisses when he brushes the head of his dick as he attempts to pull his clothes off. The minute he's naked he kneels up against the couch, trembling and ready.

"Dean, the lube--"

"Just _fuck_ me, Sammy, Jesus. Spit in your hand, or something." It's not like he's a fucking virgin, for god's sake.

"I don't--okay. Okay." Sam's hands are hot on his back, sliding down to his hips, and Dean hopes the couch can handle them fucking on it, if they're not actually _on_ it. Leaning doesn't really count, right?

Sam spits, then again, and then there's heat probing, Sam pushing his legs further apart. The tip of Sam's dick is slick against his hole and Dean wills himself to relax, to take it. He _wants_ it, wants it so fucking bad.

The sting and burn of penetration hurt, but it's a sweet, sweet pain Dean embraces. Behind him Sam's breathing fast, heavy, his breath moist and hot against Dean's neck as he tries to stay still while Dean opens, relaxes, takes him in.

"Love this," Sam growls, and it's the same tone that last bit of Latin was in. It spirals through Dean, slamming into him low and hard. "Fuck, Dean, you're. God."

He laughs, shakily. "Not really."

Sam smacks him on the ass once, then twice, and the sting does a feedback loop thing, from his ass to his dick to his ass. "Dick. I gotta--I gotta move, Dean."

"Do it," he breathes, hips already moving, pushing backward to drive Sam in deeper. "Fuck me, c'mon, give it to me."

Sam bites down on the back of Dean's throat, and he's sure his eyes roll back in his head. "Awfully fucking bossy, dude," Sam mutters, and he twists his hips as he thrusts.

Pleasure surges through Dean, thick and hot, sliding over him and through him, and he has his dick in his hand jerking himself fast, rough, needing it so much. Sam does it again, and again, and he's grunting like it hurts in the best way possible. Dean knows just how he feels.

Coming feels like his spine's melting, sharp jabs of pleasure that _hurt_, and leave him wrung out and quivering. His hand is sticky, slick, come dripping over his fingers. Sam grabs his hand, pulls it up and Dean swears when Sam presses his mouth there, licking his fingers clean.

He mutters, "perv," but his voice is shaky.

"You taste good," Sam mumbles, his movements getting harder, jerkier.

He lets go of Dean's hand, digs his fingers into Dean's hips and pounds into him over and over. When he comes, thick and hot inside Dean, Dean's dick twitches. It's almost enough to make him hard again; if he hadn't come like, a minute or two ago, it would be.

Sam's a heavy weight against his back, but Dean's not ready to move yet. He feels boneless, everything warm and humming with satisfaction. He feels Sam's lips brush the back of his neck, thinks Sam says, "mine", though he couldn't swear to it.

It makes him feel warmer, makes his chest ache. Dean shifts to move, but Sam doesn't appear to be ready to move, or to let Dean go either. He pulls Dean closer, wraps his long arms tight around Dean.

"Not yet," he says softly.

_Never_, is what Dean would like to say back, but even thinking it makes him feel twitchy and anxious, so instead he flexes around Sam -- still inside him, even softening -- and smiles when Sam groans.

"Jesus. Dean."

"Just 'Dean' is fine, Sammy." Smirk firmly in place, because things you hold on too tightly too? Slip away and never come back.

"Jerk." The word is more of a caress than anything, and then Sam's sliding out of him, leaving him empty and chilled where he'd been full and warm. "C'mon, wanna shower?"

Dean blinks and shifts to stand up. "You gonna wash my back?"

"You ask nicely and I'll wash anything you want me to." Sam grins that big, wide smile that makes Dean's stomach flip over. "Maybe I'll even practice my Latin some more for you. Can't practice too much, right?"

Dean shudders. This weekend may actually kill him, in the best way possible.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Latin footnotes!   
> (1) - "I really want to kiss you, right now."   
> (2) - A Prayer of Ablution. "May this water cast out all of my impurities from my substance as from lead to gold. Purify my mind, Purify my body, Purify my heart. It is so."   
> (3) - From the A Threshold Libation from the Plays of Plautus. "Drink, doors of festivity, drink, and be inclined to favour me"   
> (4) - From "How To Make Holy Water, Blessing of Holy Water Outside Mass".   
> In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  
> May God, who through water and the Holy Spirit has given us a new birth in Christ, be with you all.  
> The blessing of this water reminds us of Christ, the living water, and of the sacrament of Baptism, in which we were born of water and the Holy Spirit. Whenever, therefore, we are sprinkled with this holy water or use it in blessing ourselves upon entering the church or at home, we thank God for his priceless gift to us and we ask for his help to keep us faithful to the sacrament we have received in faith.  
> (5) - From "Rites of Exorcism, Prayers of Exorcism".   
> I cast out you noxious vermin, by God + the Father almighty, by Jesus + Christ, His only-begotten Son, and by the Holy + Spirit. May you speedily be banished from our land and fields, lingering here no longer, but passing on to places where you can do no harm. In the name of the almighty God and the entire heavenly court, as well as in the name of the holy Church of God, we pronounce a curse on you, that wherever you go you may be cursed, decreasing from day to day until you are obliterated. Let no remnant of you remain anywhere, except what might be necessary for the welfare and use of mankind. Be pleased to grant our request, you who are coming to judge both the living and the dead and the world by fire.   
> (6) - From "The Liturgy of Love" by Epaphroditus, Fourth Sacrament, paragraph 39.   
> "Now look on me, though I have not the gifts of Aphrodite, fair in face and form.  
> But look at me, and see how now I look at thee - and feel the power grow!  
> Attend and feel me dwelling in thy flesh.  
> Now feel my glow throughout thy limbs and loins.  
> Yes, feel the serpent deep within thee, stirring from his torpor.  
> Feel his primitive warmth that spreadeth through thy roots, and feel him stretching long and hard, and feel him burrowing deep within thy belly!  
> From the snake take strength and fortitude. Accept the serpent's gift,  
> and let the power of life and love increase within thy loins. The Force between us burneth!


End file.
